by Larry Karp
Harmony sighed. “Okay. Six feet deep, right?”
“That’s what they say.” I worked dirt with my shovel. “Pretty loose, only been a week.”
We set to work facing each other, she at the foot of the grave, I at the head. I was surprised at how little sound our shovels made. Though the loose dirt came up easily, humidity was so high you could’ve cut the air with a butter knife. Within three minutes I was drenched. I glanced over my shoulder. Yes, the Steinberg mausoleum was set perfectly between us and the caretaker’s cottage. I pulled my T-shirt over my head, tossed it to the ground away from our dirt pile. As I bent to lift the next shovel-load, I noticed Harmony had stopped working. She shook hair back off her face, unbuttoned her shirt, shucked it off, then dropped it on top of mine. Nothing on underneath, no brassiere, nothing. Without a word, she picked up her shovel and went back to work. I tried not to look at her, thought about what would happen if we were caught. One thing for a couple of kids to explain why they were digging up a grave at two in the morning, another matter altogether that one of those kids was both a girl and bare to the waist. In 1943 a girl wouldn’t take off her shirt in public if hornets had gotten in and were stinging her to death.
We’d worked for fifteen or twenty minutes, were down about three feet, when my shovel went clunk. I squatted, wiggled fingers in the dirt, found something cold and metallic. Harmony dropped her shovel, knelt beside me. “What?”
“Don’t know.” I ran fingers around the metal, worked it free, held it up. Rectangular container, a foot long, six inches across. I felt an irregularity on one side, peered at it. Brass plaque.
Harmony leaned forward, cheek-to-cheek with me. Her hair brushed my bare shoulder. “Jonas Fleischmann, 1907-1943…” She looked up at me. “Oh shit, Leo! They cremated him.”
Harmony’s face wasn’t three inches from mine. One of her breasts pressed against my arm. She smelled of dirt and sweat. I dropped the box, took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. I’d never done that before—thought about it often enough, but never had the nerve. We kissed for…how do you time a kiss when you’re sixteen years old? Harmony finally pulled away, smiled, patted my arm, then asked, “Can you test ashes for strychnine?”
Could’ve been dismissive, a pat on the arm, an on-with-business question. As if the kiss never happened. But there was an acknowledgment in her smile, like a long-married wife whose husband showed a bit of open affection at an inappropriate moment. I picked up the box, held it out to Harmony. “Feel around the edge there—nails. Must be wood, covered with sheet metal. We’d need to take it home and pry it open, but to test ashes? I don’t think there could be any strychnine left, not after all that heat.”
Harmony looked at the pile of dirt next to the hole, made a face. “All this for nothing.”
“Not exactly nothing,” I said. “One thing I learned this summer, working with Samuel, is that Jewish people don’t cremate their dead. But I bet Jonas was cremated so he never could be tested. Not the proof you want, but suspicious as hell.” I laid the box back in the grave, picked up my shovel. “Let’s put back the dirt and get out of here.”
I surprised myself at how well I slept the rest of that night. Bright light when I got up, ten o’clock. Note from Harmony on the floor just inside the door. She’d gone to the Red Cross, would be back by five, she’d see me then. Downstairs, no one home. I walked across to our house, no one home there, either. I drank some orange juice, ate a bowl of cereal, then went upstairs and took a long shower. All the while, I couldn’t stop thinking of the look on Harmony’s face as she listened to the music box, and her smile after I’d kissed her over Jonas Fleischmann’s open grave. That music box was going to be finished by five o’clock.
Chapter 13
My cell phone buzzed. Dad looked annoyed, but stopped talking as I pushed the button and said hello.
“Martin? Martin, dear, please pretend I’m Helene. Say ‘Hello, Helene.’”
“Hello, Helene,” I said. “What’s up?” Catching myself just in time to not say, “What’s up, Mother?”
“Martin, you’re with your dad? Just say yes or no.”
“Yes. But why—”
“I’m a little worried, dear. After you called last night, he went into his den, locked the door, and didn’t come out until this morning. He said nothing to me, not a word—just shaved, had some oatmeal and coffee, and went off to see you. I can’t imagine what you told him, but don’t say anything now. Not if he’s there.”
“No, of course not…Helene.”
“He’s drinking, isn’t he? More than a little.”
“You can say that again.”
“Please don’t let him drive home. So furious, and drunk besides, I’m really concerned.”
“I’ll take care of it, Helene.”
Did Dad give me a bit of the fish eye there? “Nothing to worry about,” I said. “I’ll get the work done in plenty of time. Frank can be a pain in the ass. Just tell him to cool it, I’ll talk to him later.”
“You will call me later, then, dear? Let me know he’s all right?”
“Absolutely. Tell Frank he can take it to the bank. Now, I’ve got to go—bye Helene. I love you.”
“You are so sweet, dear, thank you. Goodbye.”
I clicked END CALL, then slipped the phone back into its case on my hip. No question now, a clear fish eye from Dad. “Frank Riccardi, from my office,” I said. “Far as he’s concerned, a deadline goes down a week before it’s due. He called Helene and bugged her about a program that’s due from me next Friday.”
“Hmmm.” Dad drummed his fingers. He knew I was lying, but no way to prove it. Our old sweet song. “All taken care of,” I said. “Go on. You were going to have Harmony’s music box perfect by five o’clock.”
Check, checkmate. Dad took a swallow, then started slowly, picking up speed as he went.
Yes, right. I could’ve worked on it right there at home but didn’t want to miss a chance at Oscar’s strongbox. I ran down to the basement, got a hacksaw and put it into a bag with the music box, Mr. Hogue’s tools, and the lock I’d bought the day before. Then I hopped on my bike, pedaled off to the junkyard.
When I rode through the gate, George was negotiating with a skinny, angular man over two radios and a sewing machine. The man looked absolutely pissed, jabbing fingers in the air, stamping feet. I parked my bike against the office wall, walked toward George—and suddenly recognized the angry man. Red Dexter’s raggedy friend, the one Harmony and I nearly ran down as we were trying to get away from Mr. Raskin, the druggist. “I no gotta do business with niggers,” the man shouted. “Mr. Fleischmann gimme more money’n that.” The man’s tattered shirtsleeves fluttered like little flags as he pumped his arms.
George shrugged. “Okay. Murray ’n’ Oscar be back later, talk to them.” George turned, took a step away.
“Awright, awright,” the man yelled. “I needa da money, I take.”
“You sure?” George asked quietly.
“Gimme da money,” the man shouted. “You say two-fifty, okay, I take two-fifty. My kids needa food real bad.”
George reached into his pocket, peeled two bills off a small roll, then pulled out a handful of change and extracted a couple of quarters. The man took the money, stared at it as if the bills and coins themselves had insulted him, finally shoved the wad savagely into a pocket. Then he gave me a hard look, and jerked his head toward George. “Two and a half dolla’ for two good radios and a sewin’ machine.” His red eyes were watery, hands shaking. He spat at George’s feet. “Nigger and two kike-Jewmans, I lucky they don’ jus’ hit me over da head an’ steal my stuff.”
“You don’t like it here, why don’t you take your business someplace else?” I asked.
The man looked back at George, who smiled. “See ya, Aldo.” The ragtag man nodded, shot me a withering look, then walked out the gate.
“Lucky Murray didn’t hear you,” George said
quietly. “And Oscar…whoo. Think you had troubles with him before?”
“But what that guy said. What he was calling you—”
“Just parta the game, Leo. Hungry kids? Aldo?” George slapped a huge hand against his thigh, started laughing. “Ain’t no kids, hungry or otherwise. What Aldo’s got is the DTs comin’ on. This neighborhood’s fulla guys jus’ like him. They call Murray or Oscar a cheap kike, say the nigger’d give better, so Murray or Os says fine, go talk to the nigger. Os’d probably even grab a piece of pipe an’ start yellin’ about how if the guy don’t watch his mouth, there’s gonna be guinea brains all over the yard. Or kraut brains, or spic brains, or Mick brains, or Polack brains. Just the way we talks around here. Nothin’ personal.”
“Like Miss Pussy,” I said.
George went through a moment of uncertainty, then a big smile broke through. “That’s right, Leo. Oscar calls you Miss Pussy, you’re suppose’ to say, ‘Lookit who’s talking, Mr. Needleprick the Duckfucker.’ Then you both go on wit’ your business.”
I looked around the yard. “They here? Murray and Oscar?”
“Went to make a pickup.”
I don’t think George played poker, or if he did, he didn’t win much. His voice was casual but his face was dead-grim. This was no routine pickup, a refrigerator, stove, bathtub. I didn’t say anything, just kept looking at George. He rubbed thumbs and forefingers together, then finally said one word. “Scrap.”
“Something big?”
“Yeah.” He pointed at the empty space near the fence where we’d sorted metal two days before. “That be full again this afternoon. Now stop askin’ questions, go work on your music box…” Monkey business spread outward from the corners of his mouth. “Li’l Miss Pussy.” He punched my arm lightly.
I knew he was waiting for me to say something like, “Okay, nigger, no ribs and beer for you today,” but I couldn’t, just could not force it out. I punched George’s arm lightly, walked away. “Leo, why you always be such a serious boy?” he asked my back.
From the worktable, I could see George at the side of the office, fiddling with Aldo’s radios. No way to sneak in. Later. I set myself to dampering. Pull pin, place wire, push pin back in, cut wire, shape it. After about half an hour I heard the truck, tried to ignore it, but the clattering of metal being tossed was more than I could resist.
I put down the comb and loupe, stood, stretched, then strolled around to the front of the office. Murray, Oscar and George were unloading sheets of shiny silver metal from the truck, piling them near the fence. By all rights the junkmen should’ve been struggling, but they picked up those giant panels easily, carried them as if they’d suddenly been endowed with superhuman strength. Oscar tossed a sheet onto the pile, turned, noticed me. A fat brown cigar dangled from his lower lip as if glued there. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he shouted.
The other men froze, then turned slowly. Oscar ripped his cigar from his mouth. “Every goddamn time I get myself in a good mood, I turn around and bingo, there’s Shitface Miss Pussy. What do I gotta do to get rid of you, once and for all? Throw you the hell outa here on your little fairy ass?”
Murray moved toward Oscar. I caught the look on George’s face. “You throw me out?” I snapped at Oscar. “Look who’s talking big—Mr. Needleprick the Duckfucker. No wonder you don’t know what to do with a pussy.”
Murray started laughing. George’s smile was for me alone. Oscar rammed the cigar back to the corner of his mouth, then growled, “You little turd, I’ll mobilize you,” but there was weakness in his tone, and he didn’t move forward. I pointed at the cigar. “Turd yourself,” I said. “What’d you do, put your clothes on upside down? I’ve talked to assholes before but never one that was taking a shit.”
Murray and George both started yukking like Catskillers listening to Milton Berle. I felt disgusted. I’d never talked like that in my life, was horn-mad at myself for letting Oscar provoke me to it. But George was clearly right. Oscar got red as a clown’s nose, spluttered, fumed, but made no move to attack. I looked at Murray. “Can I help you unload?”
Murray darted eyes in Oscar’s direction. “Nah, this’s easy stuff, no sweat. Go on back, do what you were doing. I’ll come see how it looks when I’m done.”
A few minutes after the clattering stopped, Murray waddled around the corner of the office building, head back, chugging a Coke. As he came up to the bench he lowered the bottle and let loose a monster belch, low, long, like a tuba solo. He nodded at the music mechanism, looked impressed. “You and Chet got it running, huh?”
“Yeah, me and Chet. He did it, I watched.”
“Hey, Dockie—you hadn’t brought it over to him and stood there, it wouldn’a ever got done, right? So you both did it. What was the matter, governor?”
I pointed to the critical screw. “Chet adjusted it here, just about a quarter-turn. To make the worm and first gear mesh right.”
Murray shook his head. “I’ll be go-to-hell. Guy can make any clock or music box run.” He picked the comb off the table, studied it a moment, whistled. “Jeez, them dampeners—right on, every one. You do ’em, or Chet?”
“He did the first ten to show me how,” I said. “I did the rest.”
“God damn!” Murray held up the comb, squinted, wiggled it ever so slightly back and forth. “Can’t see no difference between his and yours.”
“One difference is, it took him five minutes to do ten. It’s taken me four, five hours to do about forty.”
Murray looked me hard in the eyes. “Dockie, gonna ask you a question. If it takes your old man a week to get a person fixed up, does anybody give a rat’s ass about that week? A job takes however long it takes. Only thing matters is if it’s done right. Kapeesh?”
As easily as Oscar could get my back up, Murray could put me in my place. He gave me a light smack on the back of my head. “Go on, Dockie, work on your job. I gotta do mine. Three more loads to pick up today.”
“Business is good,” I said.
“You ain’t shittin’.” Murray leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Business don’t get much better’n four truckloads of aluminum…” He stopped suddenly, midsentence.
I picked up. “Aluminum—that’s why you could lift it like it didn’t weigh anything. And three more loads? Where’s it coming from?”
Murray’s high color faded. “Dockie, lemme tell you something, okay? What you just heard about aluminum is like when your old man hears something from a patient. He don’t ever repeat it, not for nothing, not to nobody. So here’s a very important thing—you didn’t hear nothing about any aluminum, you didn’t see no aluminum. You kapeesh about aluminum?”
“What aluminum?”
He looked confused but only for an instant. Then he laughed raucously. “You’re okay, Dockie. Sometimes when you talk I think I’m hearing your old man.”
If I didn’t particularly like that—and I didn’t—I had to admit there were advantages. The same way George told Dockie what he’d never say to Just Plain Leo, Murray slipped up, mentioned aluminum. And even though he caught himself instantly, the cat was still out.
I picked up the loupe, went back to work on the dampers. When I heard the truck drive off, I stood, then walked around the corner of the office to the front. George was struggling to drape a big tarp over the pile of aluminum. I ran over, took an edge. We covered the pile, weighted the corners with rocks. George looked at his watch. “Long day, three more loads coming. Be here probably ’til seven.”
I thought about trying to get more information, but remembered Murray’s warning. Instead, I asked George what he was going to do ’til the next load came in.
“Just donkey work.” He grinned. “Nigger work. Sortin’ out yesterday’s stuff.” He pointed at a disorderly heap of appliances, fabric, mattresses and wheels at the far side of the office. “You stay back there with your music box. Better if Os don’t see you.”
Kapeesh, I thought, and walked back
to my worktable.
A while later, I heard the toilet flush inside the office. Not George—he was in clear view, pawing through yesterday’s haul. And the truck hadn’t come back, so it wasn’t Murray or Oscar. Maybe they let Aldo use their bathroom. I picked up the roll of damper wire, kept working.
The truck rolled back in, motor cut out, doors slammed, one-two. Then I heard a voice I’d heard before, gravelly, strident. “Ho-ho, the Fleischmanns are prospering. Another load of metal for the Germans to make bullets out of? To fire into the bodies of your brothers?”
I turned, glanced at George. He rolled his eyes.
“Only brother I got’s dead already.” Murray. “Ez, get back to your schul, huh? Go say some nice prayers, or whatever the hell it is you do all day while honest men’re tryin’ to make a living.”
Ez, Ezra Shnayerson. The man I heard chewing Murray out the night Samuel delivered Shannon’s baby. I put down the music box comb, got up from the table, walked to the corner of the building, listened. “I heard a terrible thing,” Shnayerson said. “Aluminum, what they use for building airplanes? What the Nazis and Japs can’t get enough of, they’ll pay a king’s ransom? A carload of it vanished last night from the defense plant over on Ryle Road.”
I held my breath during a brief silence. Then, “You like hearin’ terrible things, Ez?” Murray again. “Well, here’s one just for you.” A fart, loud, fluttery. “Now I’m goin’ inside, gonna use the pot, an’ Ez, I swear, if you’re still here when I come out, I’m gonna kick your holy ass the hell across the river into Emerson.” Then I heard Murray stamp his way across the office. Slam went the door to the bathroom.
I edged my face around the corner of the building. The pile of aluminum was still covered, not a single shining piece of metal in sight. Another tarp hid the load on the pickup truck. Big, round Ezra Shnayerson, with his scraggly black beard, black suit and tie, black skullcap on his balding head, looked like one of those childrens’ roly-poly knockdown toys. He jabbed a finger into Oscar Fleischmann’s chest. “Oscar, you got to know the news.” Bellowing like a bull at the end of a short chain with three cows in plain sight. “First from Rabbi Wise, now comes from Henry Morgenthau himself. Six thousand Jews killed every day, just in Poland alone. Death camps. They put Jews in ovens, in gas chambers. For a Jew to sell metal to the Nazis is more than treason, it’s—”
